Kids and planes don’t usually mix well. They squirm, shriek, fight, cry, go to the bathroom way too often, wake you up, and are perpetually wondering aloud when they can stop being uncomfortable in the air and start being uncomfortable in a car. But who can blame them? When I was eight years old, it was tough to sit through a 20-minute church sermon, let alone an eight-hour transatlantic flight. (Not that my sermon endurance has changed much. Unless it contains some mention of fire and/or brimstone. Then I’m riveted.) But despite the annoyances, it is incredible to watch a child look out the window on his or her first takeoff. Most times they can barely see out the window. They stretch their necks and tilt their chins up as the engines fire and that first burst of acceleration jolts us backwards. As we tilt upward and rise, they sometimes make a little noise of awe, or turn around to glance questioningly at their parents with wide eyes of nervous excitement. “Is this really possible?” their faces wonder. Gatwick airport disappears behind and below, and the sprawling crush of London morphs into the low green fields of southern England. It reminds me how marvelous this feat is that we take for granted. How many of our ancestors looked at the birds and dreamed of gliding through the clouds? For millennia we reached, climbed, and built towers to the heavens, but now we sit in sticky leather seats and barely glance from our bad magazines as we rise through the low fog.
I guess sleep deprivation makes me nostalgic. I’d taken the 4:45 AM train from Cambridge that morning after a long wine-filled dinner, packing, and 3 hours of sleep the night before. It was 8.5 hours from London to Charlotte, North Carolina. When my personal movie-station broke, I alternated between reading “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” (which is fantastic, btw) and trying unsuccessfully to nap. I’ve never been able to sleep on planes and am insanely jealous of those people that can pass out on command. The best I can do is half-conscious trance, which is invariably interrupted by some child kicking my seat back. (After that first awe-inspiring take-off, kids are once again nearly intolerable). We landed at about 1 PM east coast time, to the instant relief of my spine and eardrums.
The first shock was the temperature and humidity. It rarely if ever gets above 75 F in England. The oppressive North Carolina heat filled my lungs with what felt like thick taffy. Instant perspiration. I’d forgotten the feeling.
The second shock was the accent. I hadn’t heard a Southern accent since leaving in October, and when the man behind me exclaimed “Boy golly, it shore is mighty hau-ght today!”, I jumped. I ordered a greasy pepperoni pizza from a girl who didn’t speak or look at me during the whole process, and couldn’t stop staring at a woman who couldn’t have been less than 350 pounds. I don’t mean any of this to sound elitist. England has its fair share of socio-cultural problems: interpersonal reticence, inflexible class distinctions, chavs that jump in front of your moving bike and scream “What the fuck’r you lookin’ at???!!!!”. The weird thing was how I’d gotten used to all that in only 7 months, and found myself staring at an obese (but hardly extraordinary) person like she was an alien, devouring a chicken fried rice with massive claws (chop sticks). Then again, there were plenty things I was happy to see as well: random acts of verbal friendliness, laughter everywhere. I loved the basketball on the television screens and the smell of cheap airport barbecue. As husbands, wives, fathers, daughters, and friends reunited in front of me with unashamed emotion, I realized how incredibly open we are compared to the British. We bare ourselves to the world with much less regard for how we’re perceived, whether or not it’s socially acceptable. Sometimes it’s quite annoying (like the girl arguing loudly on her cell phone), but just as often its endearing. A young man in desert fatigues clutched his small daughter; slowly swaying with eyes closed for what for him must have been eternity. The toddler swiveled her head to watch as I passed. We open ourselves to the sunshine or the blistering gale of others’ perceptions, without a forecast or even a glance outside.
Four hour layover in Charlotte. Still no rest.
In the two and half hours from Charlotte to KC, I managed something that almost resembled sleep!!! We landed, and I got my own emotional reunion from mama. One LONG hug and many big smiles later we were off. We had so many things to talk about, and I tried my best to be conversant after nearly 20 hours of travelling. Jet lag isn’t supposed to be that bad going west, but the sun still felt too close to the horizon. As it set during dinner, I felt like pupils were refusing to dilate, expecting the soft English midday light instead of Midwest dusk.
I wanted so badly to fall into bed, but I drove to Lawrence with Jay-Z’s Black Album blasting my ears and stoking my adrenaline to keep me awake.
I read somewhere that every hour of sleep less than 5 that a person gets is equivalent to the effect of one drink. No wonder I felt wasted after a only couple of schooners at Louise’s. Through the haze of weariness and alcohol, I saw my friends wander in to the bar one by one. Scott nearly crushed my ribs, and Schnack showed me how his nose (which I had broken the night before leaving for London) had healed properly. We forwent handshakes for hugs, and even my shattering weariness couldn’t keep my smile from growing bigger with each and every embrace. It felt so good to be home.
I don’t know what I had expected. I’ve learned so much about myself this year that I guess I was worried things might feel different. But it was so easy to fall back into the old laughter, the countless inside jokes (Bears??!!). It was like I’d stepped outside my life for a few minutes, only to return to a scene that had been frozen in time, resuming only as you set foot on the solid floor of memory. It was like I’d never left.
I loved it.
I spent that night like I had so many others in my last months in Lawrence: sprawled on a couch under a friend’s roof. Once again I was a vagabond, living out of my suitcase without a home or a job or a responsibility in the whole world. On the two other couches my friends lay down and cracked jokes while Connor noted that the world was spinning “even though my eyes are closed!!!” I drifted to unconsciousness as the crickets croaked love songs and moths circled perilously close to the lantern hung above the front porch, overlooking the darkened silence of Maine Street. Cool air drifted through a cracked window, tickled my neck, and I said a prayer to the God I don’t believe in for the incredible breadth and depth of friendship that I’m blessed with, for sparing me a life of closed doors and unkind faces and loneliness.
Out.
…………
The wedding couldn’t have gone any better. As an usher, my job was half male escort and half friendly bouncer. A middle-aged woman held onto my arm a bit too tightly and a little too long as I ushered her to her seat, and I couldn’t decide whether to shudder or to smile at the cougar who was past her post-prime. At the previous days’ rehearsal, the priest had described himself as Mexican with an English accent, which made for an interesting and partially comprehensible service. But of course it didn’t matter. The rings were exchanged, the vows said, and Peter gave a Caroline a little dip on the altar as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. In mezzanine, I was caught in the moment, but managed to see the wedding coordinator frantically gesturing for me to get out of the way so the photographer could get a clear picture of the couple exiting the sanctuary. I lurched backwards and hit my hip on the table holding the registry, and cursed too loudly. Some old lady near the back looked mortified and I crossed my fingers she wouldn’t have a coronary right then and there.
I still hadn’t gotten used to the heat, and the black tuxedo had me sweating bullets as we headed out for pictures. I did my best Calvin Klein impression (which wasn’t great) and picked sticky burrs off my pants as we waded through a field of tall, bristle-y stems to do some nature shots. Tiger, grrrrr
The reception was at Longview mansion, about 15 minutes southeast of the KC suburbs. Its large grounds had huge gardens, fountains, and a croquet lawn!!!! A fierce battle followed. Tensions ran high. Words were exchanged. Victory was achieved, but not without significant bloodshed and irreparable diplomatic damage. Such is the nature of croquet.
Knowing my propensity (and vocal capacity) for toasts and speeches, Caroline asked me to announce the wedding party as they came down the stairs to the foyer. I had the list of who was coming down in what order with the bride and groom last but I nearly fucked it up anyway, only managing to hide my temporary amnesia with a dramatic pause and unnecessary flourish.
We ate. We drank. We drank some more.
At one point I very clearly remember asking one of the bartenders, “Do you think we’ll have enough drinks to last the night?” I was just making small talk. She had been arranging wine glasses, but her hands froze and she looked me straight in the eye with the expression of an outraged artisan. “We don’t EVER run out of drinks.” –and pointedly- “Sir.” Run awayyyyy….
We drank. We danced. We drank some more.
I saw Darren on the dance floor; poppin’ and lockin’ like a mad man. Good to see you, my friend. It makes me so happy that you’re finally back.
We danced the sun below the horizon, and we danced the stars out from behind their cover of daylight. The five-piece band had smiles on their faces and sweat on their brows as we moved through the hot summer night. I remember grabbing the microphone, meaning to start some impromptu karaoke, but was pulled back onto the floor before I could belt out the first lines of a Billy Joel song. At one point all of the guys were singing “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” while the actual women vacated the floor let us have a bro moment.
With the opening chords of “Sweet Caroline”, we made a circle around the bride as she giggled and glowed in her white dress, basking in friendship and love. When we yelled “Da, da, da!!!” at the top of our lungs, my memory flashed back to the countless other times we’d done this. I remembered how we would come in to the 8th St. Tap Room and take over the anemic basement dance floor, jigging and jiving to funk and soul. We brought our own energy.
Somehow everyone made the caravan back to the hotel, where I witnessed Chris Curtin (father of the bride) get on one knee and chug a Smirnoff Ice (Why, you ask?? – www.brosicingbros.com)
….
I woke up with a splitting headache and my cheeks sore from laughter. There was a table set up in our hotel room with beer pong cups, but I don’t remember playing. There was also a crowbar on the floor by the door. I’m still not sure I want to know what that was for. Miraculously, none of my clothes were missing.
My flight was in about 3.5 hours. I went around to the various hotel rooms and woke up my cadre to say goodbye. Some were in better (and more presentable) conditions than others.
I packed in record time and gargled some breath freshener to forget the taste of red wine.
For the second time I was in a car on Interstate highway 435, heading to a plane to take me across the world, but this time I was going home. That’s where the tricky part comes in. I’m leaving Cambridge in five months, and probably won’t be back here to permanently reside (not for lack of love, though). It’s funny you know, I came to England because I felt the unknown beckoning me across 8,000 miles of ocean. In my five years of pseudo-adulthood, I’ve been lucky enough to travel more than many people fit into a lifetime. But that itch remains, tugging on my brainstem, painting me pictures of distant and enigmatic people, landscapes, and driving directions. I thought that this year would satiate my wanderlust, or at least give me enough info to make an informed decision on what kind of life I want to lead. But it’s done nothing of the sort, just made me want even more.
….
I think I’m cursed.
……
Do not ever, EVER, under any circumstances take a transatlantic flight while hung-over. Worst. Feeling. Ever.
…..
I love you all. You know who you are. I’ll be back for at least a little while in October. See you then.
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